And then she stepped forward.
The girl couldn’t have been more than ten. Her red backpack was frayed at the seams, her sneakers worn thin. The faded Yankees logo on her hoodie had seen better days. She smelled faintly of rainwater and street dust—a scent that spoke of long walks and little comfort.
“I can pay for him,” she said softly, dropping her coins into the driver’s hand. “He just needs to get somewhere, right?”
The driver grunted, staring at her tiny palm. “You sure, kid? That’s all you got.”
She nodded, eyes steady.
Something about her tone—the quiet courage in it—made the man sigh and wave them through. “Only this once.”
Ethan hesitated. He wanted to refuse, to insist he didn’t need charity. But her gaze stopped him—gentle, unjudging, as if helping someone wasn’t an act of pity, but of simple decency.
